


Plan Dicked Down

by dummythetragedy



Series: Halloween 2017 [5]
Category: Long Exposure (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Rejection, These boys need hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 10:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dummythetragedy/pseuds/dummythetragedy
Summary: Hear him out-





	Plan Dicked Down

The Halloween spirit brings a little something something out of everyone. In Mitch’s case in particular, it gives him the few extra brain cells needed to mastermind a truly genius plan.

Well, a mediocre plan.

… A plan. Every year, count on it. This festive gift of his usually leads to some annual spooky shenanigans with Javier, Scratch, and Cliff. Trashing so and so’s place with the assistance of a carton of old eggs, rolls of toilet paper skillfully stolen from a nearby Taco Bell, and booze, for example. Or grave robbing. Coincidentally, the night typically ends with three out of four of them stuck in holding. Scratch is one slippery bitch when cops get involved.

But that shit’s all in the past! This year, Mitch has channelled all of his limited brain power into creating a whole other _genre_ of a master plan. From horror to romance. From Stephen King to Nicholas Sparks. Yeah.

He’s gonna get _laid._

“Mr. Mueller.”

Phase one of plan Dicked Down is already complete; Naming the plan. Now phase two is in motion. And running like a dream, he might add.

“ _Mueller._ ”

To be fair, phase two is the easiest part for him, because being a little shit is one of his more polished talents. Maybe he’s born with it. _Maybe it’s Maybelline-_

“Mitch Mueller!” And it appears that Principal Green does not take very kindly to being ignored. _As expected_. Albert Einstein, step the fuck off your intellectual pedestal and make some room for _this guy_! “Please get away from the fire alarm and go to class.”

Ah. That will also work.

Blaring sirens, an evacuated school, and an hour of disciplinary bitching later, Mitch has exactly what he wants. A week of detention. But not just any old, skippable, sit in a silent classroom and _mourn your actions_ week of detention. Nah, just how would that further the plot? How would that get him some premium ass before the end of October? Duh, it wouldn’t, and his one opportunity a year to be smart would’ve been wasted.

Luckily, Mitch’s vast experience with trouble has provided him with the knowledge of every punishment in the Sellwood school system given at different times of the year. Fuck up a kid a week before summer break? Have fun cleaning up after summer school students every Tuesday afternoon for two months. Flush a firecracker down the toilet in the staff bathroom in early February? Enjoy hand delivering carnations for every harry tom dick in the building on Valentine’s Day. Pull the fire alarm on a certain crisp autumn morning?

Welcome to the fresh hell that is the afterschool decoration committee for the Fall Dance.

And yeah, under any other circumstances, Mitch would not even be considering partaking in something so goddamn _boring._ The yuppies who actually _volunteer_ for this kind of shit are almost guaranteed to be the absolute worst company he could ever possibly come across in this entire high school. Also, the planning room smells like liquid ass. However.

Sometimes volunteers are cute. As in, _really_ fucking cute. Cute enough that Mitch is sacrificing a lot of free time and pride just for the off chance of some love sparks going off in room four-one-nine. Stranger things have happened in Sellwood. Not, like, _demigorgan_ levels of strange, but dammit Mitch getting a boyfriend isn’t _that_ wildly out of the realm of possibility. He doesn’t think so, at least.

That confidence takes a merciless beating from the proverbial metal baseball bat of reality as he kicks the door open  the rank committee office, making eye contact with adorable incarnate upon entry.

He should run. The panic clear as day on Jonas’s pretty face strongly agrees with that course of action. He turns on his heel and prepares to nope the fuck out-

A thin hand wraps around his upper arm, yanking him back into the room and steering his confused/embarrassed form further into the disgusting aroma of what had to be rotting corpses.

“You’re late,” It’s Joey’s friend, the one with the sneer and the amish wardrobe, “I didn’t think you would show at all, so it’s… _fine_. Just be on time tomorrow. And don’t get paint on the desks, walls, or floors. As president of the party planning committee, you’re my responsibility and I will _not_ be responsible for anything going wrong. _Anything_.”

Mitch blinks at her, brain still chilling back in the doorway, “Uh.”

“I’ll send someone over to help you get started with posters. Wait here.”

His brain slingshots itself back into his head, instantly berating him for not bolting when he had the chance. He tells it to shut the hell up, because his plan for romance is once again going _perfectly_.

The stars are aligning, cupid’s arrow is being pulled back on the bowstring, fireworks are being lit, and Jonas is definitely, one hundred percent going to be the special someone sent over to assist him in his descent into young love and sexual adventuring.

Sorry, he doesn't make the rules; _Fate does_. And-

A bedazzled binder is plopped unceremoniously on the desk he’s standing by. The owner of the obnoxious binder gives him a small, braces displaying grin.

“Hi, I’m Kathy.”

What. The. _Fuck?!_

“Hi,” He says. Snarls. Same difference.

 _Kathy_ (AKA: Not Jonas) is unphased by the blatant hostility. “So, it’s pretty straightforward; You just write ‘Fall Dance’ all fancy-like and then the date and the hours underneath. You can decorate however you want, besides that- As long as it’s appropriate, I mean. Everyone’s going with more of an Autumn theme than a scary one though. Just so you know…”

Mitch tunes her out, scanning the room for the entire goddamn reason he’s even here. There. In the corner, looking all flushed and nervous and- Who is he fucking talking to while looking all flushed and nervous?

A _girl_?!

Gaydar malfunctioning. Error. Error. _Error-_

Be cool.

_Impossible-_

“Are you okay?” Kathy, who obviously doesn’t know how to stay in her own lane, very rudely interrupts his mental breakdown.

He ignores her in favor of not losing his one sided staring contest with Jonas and that girl’s interaction. Lucky for him, it appears to be going steadily downhill. Unlucky for him, Jonas now looks like he belongs in one of those depressing, abused animal commercials. Mitch is going to shank the bitch.

Aforementioned bitch starts making her way towards Mitch, with a very visible death wish shining in her eyes.

“Kathy! Let’s be partners!”

Stealing his man _and_ his decoration committee partner? Who the hell does she think she is right here right now on the diddly damn day? A major cunt, that’s fucking what-

“Yes,” Kathy, the unloyal twat, jumps at the opportunity. What a bunch of _bullshit_. There is not a damn way that he will be participating-

The girl snatches up Kathy’s arm and starts pulling her in another direction, “Mike, you can take Jonah! Okay? Okay!”

Exceptions can be made, of course. It’s the polite thing to do, after all. And Bitch One and Bitch Two obviously need the example.

Before he can over think it, Mitch begins phase three and approaches the target. Who is looking way too pitiful to handle the thick layer of flirtation Mitch had been ready to smear on him.

Don’t panic. Switch tactics.

“Stinks like shit in here,” He cheerfully greets, dropping himself into a plastic chair and loudly scooching it over until he and Jonas are sitting shoulder to shoulder. This is comfort, this is support, this is _wooing_.

“Yeah.”

Detached-monotone is not the tone necessary for sexy banter. But, it is an improvement over the usual cowering in fear and stuttering. So far, so good.

“How much do you wanna bet its ponytail forgetting her vagisil this morning?” Mitch nudges him with a leer on his face.

“No,” Jonas breathes, heartlessly removing the contact between them by leaning forward on the desk and resting his head in his arms, “Carmen always smells good.”

Okay. This is going to go one of many ways. Either Mitch ends up as a temporary rebound fuck, a complete jerk, a pathetic, smitten, shoulder to cry on, or a boyfriend. He has no fucking clue how to achieve that last one.

With an inaudible sigh, Mitch hopes his t-shirt is absorbent, “What the hell happened to you, Spots?”

“Does it matter? Go light the streamers on fire, or something.”

“Arson’s for babies,” Mitch lets the biting words roll off of him in a way that does _not_ come naturally, “C’mon. Tell me.”

Jonas’s hands clench into fists, before relaxing as quickly as they had tightened. He sighs into his arms, “I asked her to the dance. She said no. Big deal. Whatever. It was a dumb idea. What was I expecting? Now she’s never going to talk to me again and, and-” He sits up straight, eyes wet and angry, “Screw it, let’s just make some crappy posters with that gross organic paint and move on already.”

The paint is the odor, he notes as he goes into shock. One mystery solved. Onto mystery number two; How to soothe the stinging burn of someone else’s rejection.

Fuck if he knows. “I’ll get the stuff,” He croaks, fleeing. Like a _pussy_. But what the hell else is he supposed to do? This is not going according to fucking plan, _at all_!

Mitch rubs at his face, pausing as he’s about halfway between the materials table and Joey. Forget the plan! It hasn’t done him any damn favors so far. Time to take a risk. He’s good at that.

He draws in a sharp breath and marches back over to Jonas, not quite sure what he’s going to say, but knowing that he’s got to say _something_. He’s crying for fuck’s sake! Time to prove that his clothes ain’t cheap, ‘cause their rich with boyfriend material or some metaphorical shit like that.

“You forgot the- Everything,” Joey looks up at him like he’s an idiot, which is fair, because Mitch is not the brightest crayon in the box. But if he were a crayola color, he would be sunset orange because he is a true motherfucking romantic god dammit and this is his time to prove that.

“And Carmen forgot her good sense back in Neil Beckham’s bedroom,” Mitch rushes out, face _very_ warm, but lips still moving with reckless abandon, “Fuck her. Y’know, I’d go to that shitty dance with you, as much as I hate literally everything about it.”

Cards, meet table.

He holds his breath as Jonas expression starts to morph, pulse thundering in his ears.

Eventually the cutie’s features settle into something like mild annoyance, “You’re not funny. Sit down. _I’ll_ go get the stuff.”

Mitch exhales shakily as Jonas brushes past him. Then he sits, because that is what he was told to do and he, evidently, should not attempt independent thought ever again.

He half-heartedly kicks at the desk in front of him, corners of his mouth being dragged downwards by some invisible, dickish force.

It was a stupid plan anyway.


End file.
